


the sun goes up; the sun goes down

by synergenic (Losseflame)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Underage - Freeform, also, goddamnit, i can never leave this fucking show, i re-wrote an old fic, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:33:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1453900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Losseflame/pseuds/synergenic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with Dean waking to see Sammy in the motel bed across from his, yelling and shuddering in his sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sun goes up; the sun goes down

It starts with Dean waking to see Sammy in the motel bed across from his, yelling and shuddering in his sleep.

And Dean is tired, so tired, because the pile of clothes at the foot of his bed is still stiff with blood, the silver knife underneath his pillow worked its way into his dreams and his little brother's nightmares is the last thing he needs right now.

But Dad (and fuck Dad, because Dean's the one who cooks for Sammy and makes him do his fucking homework and signs his field trip permission forms with Dad's forged signature; Dean's the goddamn parent in this family) is off fighting another creature that clings to the dark, tearing the life out of that evil son of a bitch because that's about the only thing he’s good at anymore. So now Dean has a pile of twenties for the motel, a pile of dirty laundry at the foot of his bed, and John’s farewell of ‘ _take care of Sam_ ’, like he hasn’t been doing that for the past thirteen years, echoing in his head.

And Sammy with his nightmares. 

Sam moans and rolls his head to the side, his forehead creasing. Dean's chest tightens, the automatic urge to protect Sam that must be folded into his bones or his blood or his atoms overriding his exhaustion, his full bladder, his own nightmares. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, and gets up, murmuring comfort even before he reaches Sam's bed and sits down.

"It's okay, Sammy, shhhh, I'm here, everything's okay." Dean grasps Sam's shoulder, and Sam starts with half-yell, scrabbling away from Dean. Which, yeah, hurts, he's not going to deny. But the kid's thirteen and just watched his big brother bludgeon a monster to death with a blunt fire axe, and that's fuel enough for nightmares, so Dean shoves his manly sensitivity aside and focuses on trying to keep Sam's mental breakdown at bay.

"Sam, it's me, calm your shit!" And maybe it's the tone he's heard damn near every time something like this has happened or the vulgarity he disapproves of or just the familiar presence that's been with him every day for his entire life – or _maybe_ , maybe the kid's just stronger than Dean's willing to accept right now – but Sam takes a deep, whooping breath he's always claimed is some yoga trick he picked up from one of his three first grade teachers and blinks gummy eyes open.

"Dean?" This is the tone Dean hates the most, the rasping post-cry voice that makes Sammy seem even younger than he is.

"Yeah, you big baby, I'm here." Sam nods, and Dean is expecting bony arms to yank him into a clingy, octopus-arm hug, but instead they just rest where they are. Yeah, that's a little weird right there, but Sam's around the age where you start popping boners, so maybe he's decided that pubic hair heralds maturity and independence and the lack of post-nightmare hugs.

That doesn't explain the desperate puppy eyes he's getting from across the span of the bed, so Dean decides to take matters into his own hands. He slides an arm around Sammy's scrawny shoulders, and alternately moves closer and yanks Sammy's bony-ass body towards him until their sides are pressed together, at which point he slings his other arm around into a proper goddamn hug.

"Dean!" Sammy is now taking on the protesting voice he uses when Dean buys skin mags or pie instead of 'real dinner', which confirms Dean's suspicion. Dean dismisses this with a wave of his hand. Real men, as far as he's concerned, cuddle with their coltish little brothers when they need it, pubic hair be damned.

"Shaddup, Sammy, and feel the love." Only Sam remains stiff, the inches between them kept carefully in place. Dean feels like he was run over by the Impala, crushed and slightly betrayed, as the pieces finally click.

Nobody really wants to snuggle with the succubi's equivalent of Jack the Ripper, especially if you just had a nightmare about witnessing the murder.

Which Dean can understand, except that he kind of doesn't want to.

Dean then decides to treat Sammy's realization of how much blood (monsters' blood, but blood all the same) is on his hands like any other problem that pops up between the two that can't be solved by a charming grin. He decides to run away for a bit and hope that it blows over.

"I gotta take a piss." He uncurls his arms and starts to get up, only to be stopped by Sam's delayed girlish reaction.

"Wait, no!" Sammy's arms tighten around Dean's middle and he tries to use all 100 pounds of himself to bring Dean back next him. Dean smiles. Now there's the Sammy he knows.

So he lies back down and Sammy curls around him, all elbows and shoulders and sharp angles. Sam passes out in less than a minute, breathing out once and closing his eyes before falling into a coma.

Dean tries to follow suit, closing his eyes only to snap them back open when Sammy's hips make contact with his thigh.

There's another glorious moment of realization and relief, because Sammy's nightmare wasn't about him, wasn't a replay of Dean pulverizing the succubus.

This is quickly followed by a wave of self-loathing, because seriously, how much did Dean fuck up raising Sammy if the kid twists his first wet dream into a nightmare?

…

So the next day Dean subtly works in 'puberty doesn't kill you, neither will wet dreams' into every conversation, which ends in Sammy giving him looks that scream INSANE, DEAN, YOU'VE GONE ABSOLUTELY INSANE and covering his ears at one point. But Dean gets that all the time anyway and since Sam stops waking up screaming and spends more time in the shower than before he considers it a success.

The problem seems resolved, and three days later Dad comes waltzing back and they pack up their shit, get into their cars, and drive away to some new town for some new jobs.

And that's that.

Except it isn't, because they're Winchesters, and problems never actually get resolved, they just twist and morph into something that's even more fucked up.

…

Sammy is fourteen, and Dean gets it, he really does, but sometimes he doesn't and so that's how he ends up outside the pathetic shack Dad's rented shooting beer cans off the fence while Sam sulks inside, over the aftermath of the biggest bitchfit Dean's seen all week. Which, at this point, is saying something.

Every day is either the best or the worst at the age Sammy's at, because your voice cracks and your dick decides every goddamn thing is as sexy as hell at the weirdest, most inappropriate moments and you have just enough facial hair to see it but not enough for it to look good and life sucks and nobody understands you at all.

So yeah, Dean gets it. But he doesn't get the wall Sammy's build to keep the world out, his urge to nitpick and tug and fight with Dad at every opportunity, or his two-setting way of treating Dean that vacillates between screaming at him to ‘leave me alone, fuck off’ and clinging to Dean all desperate like at any second Dean's gonna up and leave. Or Sammy is. Which is a whole other side of things Dean doesn't want to get into and isn't going to.

 

Which brings him back to his first point.

 

Dad had decided that finding someplace to settle until Sammy had 'got it out of his system' – whatever 'it' was – was a peachy decision, thus he rented a shitty cottage in the ass-end of Nowhere, Iowa, set Sammy up with his laptop and his books and fled like a bat out of hell to go hunt, because monsters are easier to deal with than his hormonal son.

He even offered a place for Dean to come with him, which Dean did, once, to escape the wrath of Sammy and the even more terrifying wrath of his inner critic for not knowing how to help Sammy in the first place. Only that didn't work because Dean couldn't concentrate on the job, got himself a set of stitches on his shoulder, and landed his ass back in the shitty cottage.

Dean shoots another Coors Light can off the fence for target practice, because fuck Coors Light, that's why.

He pulls the trigger again, finds that he just wasted all his bullets on the cans of shitty beer he only bought because Dad is going through a midlife crisis, curses because that means he has to go inside again, attempts to find an excuse to stay outside, finds none, and turns to walk back into the house.

It’s getting dark and Dean mutter some choice words when he realizes Sammy hasn't eaten yet. The rickety door claps against the frame as Dean lets gravity close it, wondering how much bitchery he’ll get if they subsist on canned ravioli for another night.

"Sam, what do you want for din–" Dean stops, because Sammy is standing in the living room with his hands down his pants, which is hardly surprising, because he's fourteen and when Dean was fourteen he spent his time alternatively taking care of Sammy, hunting things and having his hand shoved down his pants.

Except Sammy's standing in front of the window overlooking the yard where Dean was just shooting beer cans, which means that Sam had his hands down his pants while watching his brother.

There are tears in Sammy's puppy eyes, and there's something twisted and just a little broken hiding behind the haze they make.

Deans stops breathing, because all the air fled the room when Sammy opened his mouth, shirking away from whatever words are coming next.

"Dean." And Dean flinches, because the voice is quiet and desperate and it sounds like Sammy is gutting himself with that word, tearing himself open like he expects Dean knows how to sew him back up again.

He doesn't, because there is fucked up and then there is _fucked up_ , and they're blurring that line already, and God, how much will this fuck with Sammy’s head? But if Dean turns around and walks out and drives around until Sammy has had to compose himself and they just pretend this never happened, how long will it take for whatever the hell Sammy is feeling to gather inside of him, curdle and turn corrosive and make him well and truly hate himself?

 

So Dean makes his decision, not on the basis of what's good and what isn't (his mind is screaming at him; _incest_ and _wrong_ and other, more personalized slurs) but for Sammy.

It's always been for Sammy, anyway, and he's probably already going to hell.

Dean tries to smile and say it's okay, but it _isn't_ and it won't ever be and he's never been much of a liar when it comes to family anyway. So instead he takes a small step forwards and Sam chokes, _chokes_ like whatever he's feeling is gathering in his throat and cutting off his air, and stumbles towards Dean with his arms outstretched.

 

Sammy presses his face into Dean's neck, and Dean wraps his arms around him and can almost pretend it's innocent. But then Sam tilts his head towards Dean's, and Dean can't give him that, he _can't_ , so he turns his head to the side and tries not to feel the sob that shakes both of them as Sam tucks his face into Dean's collarbone.

 

Dean closes his eyes and prepares to take the plunge, taking Sammy's hand and guiding it until it's over his groin.

"Is this what you want, Sammy?"

Then Sam takes both of them into his hand and mouths 'Dean' over the skin of his neck, and Dean closes his eyes and tries to pretend his brother is no one.

Afterwards, it's so easy – way too fucking easy, like maybe this is just another facet to themselves – to fall away from it and clean up and make dinner. Sammy is sitting there eating spaghetti and canned meat sauce, and Dean is just waiting for the guilt and revulsion and self-loathing to overwhelm him, only they…don't.

The only moral qualm he's having is the fact that he should be having more moral qualms, and how well and truly fucked up is he if he’s so…calm?

Sam looks up at him and smiles, actually smiles, with genuine happiness that Dean hasn't seen in weeks, and Dean decides that whatever the fuck is going on, it's okay in some sick, twisted way that isn't okay at all, but this family is a personification of that concept. So, whatever.

If God (who probably doesn't exist anyway, but for argument’s sake) has a problem with brothers loving too much, He and all His angels can damn well storm the shitty drywall kitchen Dean's sitting in, because Dean's sure as hell not repenting for something that may have helped Sammy.

Besides, they have a lot of shit to answer for.

…

When John comes back he takes Dean aside and asks what exactly Dean did to bring Sammy out of the darkest mood of many dark moods. Dean freezes and panic swirls in his chest, because his dad just doesn't get it, doesn't get that God and rules and the rest of the world isn't his responsibility, Sam is, that everything dims and fades to insignificance when it comes to that responsibility. John certainly wouldn't understand, and Dean doesn't want to imagine what his reaction would be.

John Winchester's eyes scan him, in this moment an outsider who shares Dean's last name but nothing else, with no understanding of how far the boy in front of him would go for his little brother, and no compassion to care. Dean swallows, wonders if John's eyes can see where Sammy pressed against him in bruise-like smears.

John's eyes leave, and years of instinctual lying take over. "We just chilled, you know? The kid just needed a break." This isn't the first time Dean has had to conceal the truth from someone who doesn't know and wouldn't get it.

Dad nods, and his face breaks out into a rare smile. "You did good, Dean-o."

The praise puts a warmth in Dean, and he lets a smile grow.

…

Things go back to normal, or as normal as can be considered in a hunter's life.

The Winchesters drive around, looking for jobs, finding them, and taking care of them. They stay in motel rooms and wash their clothes in Laundromats and Sammy goes to school while Dean and Dad take the research he did the last night and put it to good use. They eat cheap take-out and watch bad pay-per-view and Dad, more often than not, leaves Dean to take care of Sam as he spends more and more time searching for the thing that brought them to this in the first place.

It's not a _bad_ life, if nothing else.

Dean can almost look at Sam without having flashbacks to the thing he isn't going to think about that happened in the shitty cottage in Iowa, can almost stop unwillingly comparing the guys he brings to his own room to someone else.

It's still an almost, so he takes more girls than anything else, because girls are soft and round and other, with sweet voices that never rasp broken and long painted nails that are nothing like Sam’s.

And it's okay. Sammy smiles more than he bitches, gets better marks than Dean ever did even before he started thinking of dropping out, and his nightmares seem to be mostly gone.

He even gets asked out by some girl to the semi-formal. She has bottle-blond hair and is at that age where she's old enough to put on makeup but doesn't how to wear it well yet, and her name is Kristen. She's the one who picks Sam up for the dance, wearing a skirt that clashes with her nice new blouse, kicking beaten Mary Janes against her smudged tights. Her glasses make her eyes slightly googly. 

Sam opens the door and sees her standing there holding a paper flower made from gum wrappers, and he smiles big and wide in a way that encompasses the stuff worth fighting for in the world, and Dean decides that she's beautiful.

They leave for teenage merriment and awkward dancing, and some weight is suddenly gone off his chest that Dean didn't even notice is gone.

The lack of it almost hurts.

…

Kristen is killed by a ghost in the high school four weeks later.

Sam is the one who salts and burns the remains, some suicidal cheerleader that stuck around to bring people down to her level, a bellyful of girlish tears hiding behind the poisonous glare he sends Dad.

For once, Dean almost wants to join in, only he doesn't because he is Dean and John Winchester is his father, and Dean respects his father even if he didn't tell his youngest son his high school was haunted and let him learn the hard way to always look for signs, no matter where you are.

Dean helps Sam sneak into the funeral, and as Sam slides the paper flower into Kristen's cold hands with veins empty of anything but chemicals, Dean feels the weight return, sliding over a place in his chest he might even call his heart.

…

Sam attempts to be quiet when he sneaks into Dean's room later that night, only it doesn't work because the kid shot up four inches in a month and he's still getting used to having so much of himself. The adjustment period is not a graceful one.

Dean can tell from the set of Sam's shoulders and the rough sound of his breathing that he was just crying, maybe still is, and Dean is relieved and alarmed.

Relieved because Sam is an absolute girl and cries over everything, so his lack of tears at the funeral was disconcerting.

Alarmed because at the end of the day she was only a girl, and not the first they've known to die. The jagged breathing and trembling hands and shaking shoulders speak of something much worse and it scares Dean shitless to know that Sammy's hurting and not know why or how to help.

It's like watching the house burn down all over again, having Sammy cry in his ear as they stare up at the flames consuming everything that matters and not being able to do anything but hold him.

"Sammy –"

He's crawling in beside Dean now, pressing his face against Dean's shoulder. He mumbles something, and curls into himself, going tense even as he clings to Dean.

Dean didn't hear what Sam said and isn't sure he wants to, so instead he keeps his silence and wraps his arms around his baby brother and lets his favourite Led Zepplin shirt get covered in snot. Sam calms down after a while, breathing in and out against Dean's neck.

It brings up a flashback that he shouldn't be thinking about, so he pushes that thought to the back of his mind and focuses on Sammy.

"Are you done?" Sam nods, and hiccups once. Dean smiles and tries not to sound as relieved as he is. "Good."

Only it's not, because Dean doesn't know what the problem is and he can't fix it if he doesn't know what it is. "What was that about?"

Sam stiffens. Dean can feel each muscle in Sam's body tense and strain under the weight of whatever is going on through his mind where he is pressed against Dean.

"Sammy? R'you in trouble or something? Was Kristen pregnant? What?" A tired slur is starting to creep into Dean's voice even as he tries to shake it off, because fuck sleep, Sammy needs him. Dean really hopes that his shot in the dark with Kristen is wrong. 

Sam chokes, and Dean worries he might have just opened the floodgates again (and fuck, what if he guessed right? God, what could he do to make that better?).

"Sam?"

"I'm just so fucked up, Dean. I'm a whole new level of freak." Dean opens his mouth to protest, to ask ' _what the hell is going through your head, Sam?_ ' but Sam rises on one elbow above him and Dean is frozen.

Sam's face is a mixture of anger and anguish as he leans over Dean. He moves closer, so much closer until Dean can feel Sam's breath puffing over his lips. Sam's eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot as he looks down at Dean.

"She had your eyes." And then Sam is demolishing the space between them, molding his lips over Dean's.

Dean freezes, because he'd already decided this was the one thing he couldn't give Sammy. But that was a stupid thought, because there is nothing, _nothing_ he won't give to Sam, nothing so important he'd choose it over his brother. Not even the world.

Dean reciprocates, gives Sam everything he has to give and whatever else he can find in the air around them as Sam moves over him, sliding and gasping and mumbling a mantra of Dean's name and professions of self-loathing.

He kisses those words away, mumbles lies of how this is fine, how everything is fine, into Sam's skin as he palms Sam's skinny, angular hips through flannel pyjama pants.

Sam collapses next to Dean afterwards, pressing himself even closer than before.  
"Are you…are you really okay with this?" The _with me_ tacked onto the end is left unsaid, but Dean knows it's there. Sam's tone is hopeful, like Dean will give him the world if his next words are right.

So Dean makes a decision. He lies.

"Yeah, Sam."

[In a few years, Dean will look back and remember Sam's confession, his declaration of this 'whole new level of freak' and he will laugh a whiskey-and-bitterness soaked sound, because those kids didn't have a clue as to what was coming for them.]


End file.
